


DA Drunk Writing Prompts

by Auntvodkacat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: #drunkwritingcircle, #prompts, #various, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 05:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auntvodkacat/pseuds/Auntvodkacat
Summary: Solavellan prompt fills from my tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

They do not see him slip away from camp, or if they do, none of his companions move to stop him. Solas is a shadow of his former strength, true, but he is confident enough that he can handle himself for fifteen minutes.

It is a rare, marvelously warm day, and now that they have put the ramparts to rest, it does not smell quite so strongly of the undead. He lies down with his head on his pack at the base of a dead tree. Solas considers placing wards so that he might dream for a while, but he doesn’t have that kind of time unfortunately. They’re only resting for a short while before they head off toward the Dalish camp.

The sun’s light shines even through his thin eyelids, until suddenly he is swathed in darkness.

From his perspective on the ground, he sees only a silhouette with the light beaming out from behind it at first. After his eyes focus a little, he realizes that the sun has in fact not disappeared, but that he has been followed.

She is the Inquisitor now, isn’t she? Somehow that word does not quite describe her enough to suit him, though. He’s thinking on it, more than he should, about what precisely she is to him. Perhaps he knows on some subconscious level, and he simply can’t will himself to voice it.

The Inquisitor peers down at him in her usual, intrusive way. Solas tells himself that it doesn’t affect him anymore, but the goosebumps on his arms would say otherwise.

“Did I scare you?” She asks, tilting her head.

Solas smirks, and as he seems to increasingly these days, he says something he’ll regret.

“A sparrow should not stalk a wolf,” he replies, letting his eyes slide shut again. “He might turn around and catch you.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” she tuts. “I think you’re just making these wise old sayings up, now.”

“Am I now?” he murmurs. He shouldn’t speak with her while he’s drowsy. It’s dangerous.

“May I sit with you?” she asks.

Solas cracks one eye open at her in consideration. He should tell her no, make up some kind of excuse. The Veil is prudish here, he hears Sera sneer in his mind.

“You may do as please, Inquisitor,” he relents.

“Let me rephrase,” she playfully says, in the same way she had in that dream he’s trying so hard to forget.

_I’m more interest in ‘felt’…_

“Would you like me to sit with you?”

He grinds his teeth together in thought. Now she has him, doesn’t she? Try as he might, Solas can’t seem to ever tell her a complete lie. She’d see right through it, so what’s the point? Even the half truths are hard to get by her.

“I suppose I do,” he sighs in defeat. “But I am sure they need their Herald back in camp more than I do.”

“So he needs me now?” she muses, and he has to look at her then. Solas catches her wicked smile just before it vanishes.

“Well, you are the only hope for our salvation. I suppose we all do,” he diverts.

“Hmm,” is her only response.

She lies against the tree, her legs stretched out to only half the length of his own. He’s been given plenty of space, but somehow she’s still much too close. He should really come up with some excuse to leave now, but somehow his mind is blank.

“So I’m a sparrow, then?” she asks idly.

“With the amount of time you spend up in a tree, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he jibes. Her hand lies palm up at her side, so very close to his own. It would easy, wouldn’t it? He could just inch over, curl his fingers into those small spaces between hers.

“It’s the only place where nobody else thinks to look for me,” she sighs.

“They do not know you very well, then,” he concludes. The temptation is too much, so he rests his palms on his stomach instead. That’s better, less risky.

“And you do?” she prods. She is trying to press every single nerve she can get at today, isn’t she? Well, two can play at this game.

“Does anyone?” he remarks, sending a look at least half as piercing as one of hers.

The Inquisitor thinks on this for quite some time. She has a very particular face that makes when deep in thought, her small nose twisted to the side and lips pursed as her eyes roam the sky.

“I don’t suppose so, not anyone alive anyway,” she concludes aloud. “I might let you, though, if you wanted.”

Solas probably shouldn’t tell the Inquisitor, his commander, all of the different ways he’d like to know her. For one thing, he wants to learn what she actually tastes like, rather than the Fade’s shadow. The sound she’d make if he were to run a trail of ice down her spine is also of interest, as well as the way she might gasp should he…

Anyway, none of that matters at the moment.

“Perhaps,” he admits. “I think that is Cassandra coming up the rise now, though.”

“Shit,” she whispers, with just a hint of laughter trailing it. “Maybe later, then,”

“Later,” he slowly repeats, watching her silently walk away.

Solas rises, picks up his bag, and follows the two women back to camp.

_Is that a promise, ma’ean?_ , the traitor in his head can’t help asking. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s strange to think, considering how sweltering the heat that had relentlessly beat down upon them all day, that the desert would be so frigid once the sun had set.

As much as he longs to retreat back into his tent and avoid social interaction for a few fleeting hours, his need for warmth wins out in the end. The desert’s dry brush makes for excellent kindling, and they are able to quickly build a decently sized fire.

For once, their party is pensively silent. It has been a rather long and taxing day, and it seems that neither Dorian or Cassandra have energy for their usual quarreling. Instead, they stare with hollow eyes at their slowly cooking rations. Solas cannot say he blames them. 

The burning wood has a rather comforting smell. It takes him back, farther than currently recorded history, to evenings spent curled up by a humble fireplace, soothing hands combing through his hair. Whatever happened to her, anyway? Solas left home so suddenly, and it was not on good terms. He never wrote to her, never sent word, stubborn ass. Would she have been proud of her only son?

He supposes he’ll never know now. Just one more regret to add to the pile.

Solas cuts his gaze surreptitiously toward their Herald, now turned Inquisitor. He’d almost protested, almost, when Cassandra thrust that massive symbol into her tiny hands before that crowd. How could she have declined with such an audience? It seemed hardly fair, though Solas does not doubt she could bear the responsibility. To put it frankly, he trusts her not to have all of Thedas up in flames better than any other potential candidates for the role.

She isn’t any quieter than usual, choosing to stare raptly into the flames rather than speak. Solas wonders what it would be like to listen in on her thoughts; she expresses herself like a spirit, all disconnected phrases that form into a whole only the keen minded can piece together. The Inquisitor is a fascinating puzzle indeed.

And nothing more, his mind firmly scolds.

Despite his better judgement, he inches closer to her place by the fire. Solas glances to Dorian and Cassandra- they’re consumed with carefully taking the now cooked rabbit-haunch off of the hot pan and dividing up the small portion.

Morinthe regards him with curious eyes, peering at him from atop her knees.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers, not quite in her ear.

She cocks an eyebrow at him, and he sees the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. Her the expression fades too soon, like most beautiful things in life. Morinthe’s eyes flit back to the fire.

“The wood doesn’t smell the way it does back in the Free Marches,” Morinthe comments.

“How does it smell?” Solas presses.

“More damp, like the woods. These trees barely seem alive at all,” she says, her lips falling into their habitual pout. She really shouldn’t do that so often; it’s enough to drive a man mad.

“I’d say they’re rather remarkable survivors, considering the environment,” Solas remarks.

“Yes,” Morinthe softly agrees. “I guess so. I pity the poor things, though I would rather die of heat exhaustion than freeze to death, if given the choice.”

“There is a fair chance you might bleed out as well,” Solas muses. “Though I will do my best to prevent such an end.”

“My thanks,” Morinthe softly answers with a secretive smile. “Although, I suspect the Andrastians may want to burn me at the stake for the sake of tradition.”

Solas wishes she were joking, and perhaps she means it to sound like a jest. There is in her eyes, however, a rather genuine trace of fear.

“I will never let that happen to you,” he says. His tone is so grave that even Cassandra and Dorian have turned to stare at him.

“I-,” Morinthe stutters, blinking wide at him for a moment. She looks down, wringing her hands together as she speaks again. “Thank you. I hope I never have to hold you to your word.”

“As do I,” Solas answers in kind.


	3. Chapter 3

He isn’t drunk, not yet anyway. No, he feels only that tipsy tingling on the very end of nose now, but later he’ll rationalize his actions by saying he was completely intoxicated. It’s the only logical explanation, after all.

His fingers curl around the neck of the green bottle, and he raises it up to take a look at the worn label. Solas doesn’t recognize the name, but he can appreciate the rich flavour. It’s heartier than the wines he’d normally be attracted to.

Solas had sauntered into the main hall an hour earlier, completely soaked through with rain. He’d wandered off into the hills nearby to perform some tests on one of the soul shards they’d gathered on their journies. The storm had come in the midst of his experiments, and he’d had to run back. Fool as he was, Solas hadn’t even thought to bring a cloak.

Varric had taken one look at him, scoffed, and thrust this bottle of wine into his hands.

“You look like you need it more than I do,” he’d said. “I’ve never been able to stand the stuff anyway.”

So, that was how he’d come to find himself sitting half naked in the floor of the rotunda, a wine bottle in his hand and sheets upon sheets of senseless notes strewn about him.

A pair of small feet stop just a few feet in front of him. Solas glances up through his lashes at the eyes peering curiously down at him.

“Evening,” he says, taking another swig from the bottle.

Morinthe kneels down, and she pries the wine from his fingers to get a better look at it.

“I’ve never seen you drink before,” she ponders aloud.

“I try to remain sober whilst fighting demons,” he drawls. Solas’ eyes linger on the elegant fingers that cradle the bottle, and he feels a rather strong need take a couple of them into his mouth. How peculiar.

“You usually have a shirt on too,” Morinthe dryly notes. Her eyes drift away from his face then, and Solas is suddenly rather glad that the alcohol has made his skin flushed already.

“I laid it out to dry,” he explains. Solas reaches toward her, and she moves to hand him the bottle. He bypasses it and grasps her by the forearm instead to gently reel her in.

She places her right hand on his chest, and she smoothes fingers over his downy auburn hair. Her hands are calloused and work-worn, much like his.

Morinthe takes a gulp of the wine herself, and she scowls at the taste. Solas can’t help chuckling, which only makes her frown more fiercely. He wraps an arm around her waist and kisses her, longer than he probably should’ve. The wine tastes so much better this way, though.

Matters become more dangerous when she returns the favor. Her hand curls into a fist against his chest, and she turns his head to go in at a deeper angle. Solas clutches her soft thigh, doing his best to maintain control over himself.

Morinthe pulls away from him, and she stares at him for a few moments too long. She scares him when she does this– he always feels like she might see something she shouldn’t.

A raven makes a disturbed shriek up above, which causes her to glance away from him again. The rain still hammers against the roof up above, punctuated every so often with a boom of lightning.

“Does the storm scare you?” he jibes, fingering a button on her jacket.

“I like the rain, actually,” Morinthe answers. She meets his gaze with a challenging smirk. “Makes you want to curl up some place comfortable and forget about the world for a while, doesn’t it?”

“A little,” he says. Solas takes the wine from her again and drinks a small sip.

“Please stop drinking that swill,” Morinthe laughs, trying and failing to knock it out of his hands. “It makes you taste bad. I don’t know how you keep it down.”

“You seem to have a penchant for that vile substance they call tea, so I suppose there’s no accounting for your taste,” Solas tuts.

“I also like you for some reason, so I guess you must be onto something,” Morinthe bites back.

“I am not entirely sure why you do, honestly,” Solas admits. “I truly am a worthless person at heart, you know.”

She seems to be a bit taken aback, and he supposes it isn’t something he would say under normal circumstances. It’s the truth, though. Morinthe frowns; he lets his eyes flutter closed as she cups his face in her hands.

“Want to come up to my room and dry off?” she whispers. “And I’ll explain exactly why I want you, and no one else.”

And he would like to, more than anything. He glances down at the emerald green bottle in her hand, just a shade darker than her glistening eyes.

“Yes,” he slowly answers. Solas kisses her again, but more chastely this time.

He can always blame it on the wine.


End file.
